


My Blood is Singing

by Niobium



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 18:31:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3391880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niobium/pseuds/Niobium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Thor pushes a storm a little too far. And, sometimes, the storm pushes back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Blood is Singing

**Author's Note:**

> hariboo put up [this amazing prompt](http://hariboo.livejournal.com/325667.html?thread=2839843#t2839843) (Thor - Jane/Thor - _she's the only thing that grounds him_ ) and my hand sort of slipped. Like, a lot.
> 
> This is a mix of gen/mission-y and fluffy and comfort-y and mature-y and is Jane/Thor-centric. Everyone else mentioned makes the briefest of brief appearances.

***

It's difficult for Thor to explain to humans how the fundamental forces of the universe work. He struggles to find the right language for describing these things he’s known most of his life to those who’ve never experienced anything like them. Comparisons with other faculties like sight or sound are inadequate and superficial, so he avoids them, yet that’s what they often reach for when attempting to clarify it for themselves. They think he hears weather in the wind with his ears, or sees it forming on the horizon with his eyes, when in reality he feels it in his blood and with his heart.

Because it's challenging to make this clear to them—though Jane is tireless in listening to his descriptions, and Stark makes continuous efforts to translate them into something he can accept—it's even harder to explain that there is give and take in using these forces. He can't control a storm without surrendering some measure of himself to it. That’s simply the nature of magic, and it means he has to be careful. He must not give as much of himself up to the storm as he or it might want. Especially not here, on Midgard. On a Realm this size there are too many forces at play, and thus innumerable ways a poorly managed storm can spiral out of control.

He's mostly successful at managing this balancing act, but sometimes he's not. Sometimes the storm gets away from him and threatens to carry him with it.

Today is one such day.

A smaller vortex would have been sufficient to the task Steven has set him, to say nothing of easier to manage, so the sheer power of what he does summon is entirely uncalled for. That this part of the Realm is ill suited to forming them might be why he overextends himself. It’s more difficult, so he asks a little too much and gives a little too much in return, and the Realm’s forces are more than happy to oblige him. Either way, within seconds he doesn't care one bit. The storm is pouring through his veins and it is going to obliterate everything in its path because that’s why he’s called it. It is raw power and rage and it only wants to exist, and he’s given it the ability to do so. Now it intends to make good on its end of the bargain.

He turns it on the Hydra weapons he's to dismantle: a series of ground facilities which launch large explosive projectiles, making the airspace unsafe for Stark, Sam Wilson, Colonel Rhodes, and the Avengers’ aircraft. A single pass is all that’s needed. The vortex wipes them out with little effort, like a child carelessly sweeping its toys about in a tantrum. The buildings disintegrate under the sheer power of the wind, detonating some of the ammunition in the process and casting debris for miles. Thick smoke curls into the sky and darkens the storm further, rendering it a towering, black mass etched by lightning and wane sunlight. Some of Hydra's forces look at it and simply run away. They dart between the broad evergreen trees carpeting this lovely Midgardian vale, maybe hoping to find passages through the craggy, snow-covered mountains that ring it. There will be no hope for them there—Nick Fury has already seen to any escape routes, and set his allies at them. 

He hears someone say his name. Is it Steven? He thinks it is. Something about Stark and Colonel Rhodes and Sam Wilson. Probably the wind. The wind is too much, and they can't fly.

Reigning the storm in is a struggle since it means he's fighting against himself as well. The storm wants to show him so many beautiful things and he won't let it. He can't let it. It gives in, though not before thrashing and downing a stand of trees in the process.

"Thanks," Colonel Rhodes says. A few seconds later, he continues, "There's nothing left of their surface to air, and we've got you covered from the forces they still have. You're good to go, Cap."

Steven will now take Banner, Clint Barton, Maria Hill, and Natasha inside. Nick Fury will guide them through the labyrinthine tunnels of the stronghold remotely. There are things they need to retrieve, information they have to confirm. 

This is a technique they've been perfecting for months now, so they're not long at it. Natasha, Maria Hill, and Nick Fury are adept at hunting down the warrens Hydra has built over the years. They examine them and determine what secrets they hold, taking their time to be sure there will be no ugly surprises. Once the Avengers understand what awaits, they arrive to defeat their enemies, free any prisoners, and reclaim Hydra’s knowledge for themselves.

In his ear, Steven says, “Clear skies are a go, Thor.”

The storm is not interested in stopping, and he has to unravel it forcibly, which is messy and produces hail and pouring rain and a great deal of lightning. Yet it has the desired result: the wind shear which had helped produce the vortex dies, and the funnel cloud bleeds away. There’s just a large thunderstorm now, and with no real tendency in this part of the Realm for it to remain it’s a rapidly dissipating one at that. But there’s a bit of it lodged inside him, stirring his blood and making it difficult to concentrate; a sure sign he's overreached.

He lands and finds his legs are embarrassingly shaky, like he's an untried soldier after his first battle. He spends a moment steadying himself, waiting for his racing heartbeat to slow before he moves to join his friends. Stark and Natasha are discussing some of their finds. Colonel Rhodes, Maria Hill, and Clint Barton are conversing in low tones. 

Steven and Sam Wilson are surveying the trough gouged by the vortex. Hydra's weapons are mere splinters dotting the upturned earth, rock, and plants. 

"Boy he does _not_ fuck around," Sam Wilson says under his breath to Steven. Steven doesn’t respond. Sam Wilson catches sight of Thor, and says, “Nice work.”

He can’t think of a proper reply, not around the echoes of the storm filling his head, so he simply nods. Sam Wilson gives him what he thinks is a nervous smile; Steven watches him until Stark calls for them to come look at something.

The entire flight back he feels the vortex spinning inside of him still, and it's all he can do to focus on anything anyone says to him.

***

Most of them intend to celebrate with a meal and drinking in the wake of their success, but he’s in the mood for neither, so he takes his leave. He thinks Natasha is observing him closely as he retreats, which isn’t a surprise. She would be the one to notice, out of all of them.

He expects to have the modest suite he shares with Jane to himself, as the sun is still in the sky and she’d only just begun her work for the day when he left that morning. It is a surprise, then, to find her there, though a pleasant one.

“Welcome back,” she calls, and when he hears her voice he feels some of the wild energy seething inside him uncoil and dissolve. He comes into the living room and finds her curled up on the sofa with her tablet, a mug of tea, and a plate of cookies. “I decided to take it easy today, like you and Darcy are always on me to—” She hasn’t been looking right at him, but the moment she does she stops talking, blinks, and finishes with, “Wow. What happened?”

He looks down at himself. There’s larges patches of soot on him, no doubt from the smoke the storm swallowed. His hair is probably a knotted mess; he hadn’t thought to check it during the flight. And he’s gripping Mjölnir so hard his knuckles are white, has been (he thinks) since summoning the storm.

After a moment he realizes she’s asked a question and he should be answering it. “We were victorious. I am sure Stark will wish for you to examine some of their findings. He believes this fortress was the site of an attempt to produce a vessel capable of crossing the stars.” He’s impressed with himself for managing to string together that many words in complete sentences.

“Sure thing.” Jane keeps scrutinizing him, then sets her drink and treats aside and approaches him, and without thinking he grabs her into embrace so quickly it makes her squeak. He sets Mjölnir down (reluctantly) so he can use both arms, and she squirms enough that he loosens his hold. She leans back and frames his face with her hands.

"Hey," she says, and the storm ebbs in response to her cool hands on his skin. He wonders if he feels flushed to her. "Hey, are you alright?"

He is and he isn't. He shouldn't have let the storm slip his hand like that. He hasn't done that in centuries. Not since Vanaheimr, with the rock cobolds and Sif and—

No. He's not going to think of that. He focuses on Jane. "I, will be. Presently." He tries to sound more convincing than he feels, and can tell by the look in her eyes that he's failed utterly.

"Uh-uh." She brushes his hair back from his face. "How about we get you out of your armor and you can rest."

He isn't tired in the least, in fact he's the polar opposite of it. But getting out of his armor will probably help. Holding her is _definitely_ helping, and without his armor she’ll be more comfortable.

He finds he has just enough presence of mind to send most of it away, leaving Jane to help him with what remains: his vambraces, his breastplate, and his underclothes. The underclothes are drenched.

“Ugh,” Jane says, holding the sodden mass at arm’s length once they have it off him. “Is this rain or sweat?”

He’s not actually sure, and wonders if there’s even a difference in this case. She doesn’t wait for an answer, just takes them to the laundry basket and dumps them in unceremoniously. Then she disappears into the bathroom for a moment and returns with a comb. Gesturing at the bed, she says, “Have a seat.”

He perches on the edge, and she settles behind him and gets to work. She’s only a few strokes in when she says, “You have hair magic, don’t you.” Another gentle tug. “My knots _never_ come out this easy.”

The warmth of her behind him is a welcome distraction from the wind he thinks he can still hear. He wants to lean back so she can hold him, but that will interfere with her task, so he stays seated and schools himself to patience. “The dwarves of Niðavellir are said to have such skills. Most of them grow great beards, which would be troublesome to manage without it, I should think.”

She stops. “You’re serious.”

He smiles to himself. She pulls on his hair, gently and firmly, and he relents. “I am quite serious.”

“Well, next time you’re visiting them, get me a magic hairbrush. And magic hair clips, if they have those. I get the feeling we could use them.”

“I shall be glad to do so.”

It only takes her another minute to finish, then she pushes at his back. He leans into her touch, and she shoves a little harder.

“Shower,” she says. “Whatever this black stuff is, it’s not coming off without some soap and a washcloth.”

He frowns and rubs a spot on his wrist, and finds it both greasy and sticky. Probably sensing his reluctance, she runs her hands over his back and says into his ear, “I’ll help.”

He makes a low sound of approval and levers himself up, and lets her lead him to the shower so she can see the look in his eyes. She does, he thinks, by the way she smiles at him and wastes no time in tossing aside her clothes and pushing him in ahead of her.

The soot is far less accommodating than the snarls in his hair. She speculates that if it had gotten on anyone else (except possibly Banner) it might have actually injured their skin. If Jane scrubbing at him with a washcloth wasn’t such a fine thing he might be more concerned, though as it is he finds himself unable to focus on the topic. He hopes he’ll remember to mention it to Steven later, in case this is evidence of a new weapon.

After the third washcloth she declares him clean, and pulls him into a fierce, demanding kiss. He leans in and she runs her hands over his chest and down to his hips. She spends a moment there, stroking just below his belly and enjoying the way it makes him tremble, and just as he starts to think he can’t tolerate much more of it she takes him in her hand and he stops hearing the storm all-together. 

There’s a bench in the shower, broad and sturdy-looking and anchored into the wall, because (according to Jane) Stark is incapable of doing things simply. Normally Thor would prefer the bed, or at least the floor of the bedroom, but Jane has given him something to turn his energies towards right _now_ , rather than at an indeterminate moment in the future, and he does so without a second thought. There’s some awkwardness as they sort out the best way to make use of the generous platform, and Jane succumbs to a small fit of laughter until Thor slides his hand between her thighs and kisses her breathless. Then she’s the one insisting they determine how to properly take advantage of the bench this instant.

It’s not unlike being in the midst of the storm again, with the water falling around them and his mind intently focused on the give and take between them and how to balance it while his blood sings in his veins. He can’t be certain if this time he’s the storm, or if maybe Jane is, though once her fingers are tangled in his hair and he’s saying her name at her throat he thinks it’s some of both. And then he just stops thinking, until some time later when they’re both panting and clinging to one another in the aftermath. 

It takes them a few minutes to catch their breath. He leans back against the cool tile wall of the shower and runs one hand along her back, and she lies on top of him, stroking his face. He’s thankful the bench is capable of supporting their combined weight plus the rigors of them using it for unintended purposes. (Or, since it is presumably Stark’s own design, perhaps it _is_ intended to tolerate fucking with total abandon.)

Presently Jane says, “We’re wrinkling,” and he examines her hand and sees she is correct. She sits up, steadying herself on his shoulder. “I’d feel a lot worse about using all this water if I didn’t know we have the world’s best water reclamation unit in the basement.”

He kisses her palm. He’s not terribly interested in moving, but she slides off him to her feet, rinses herself, and tries to pull him up by his wrist. It’s a futile gesture, and she looks so lovely in her determination that he’s of half a mind to drag her back into his arms and revisit their previous endeavors.

“Come on, you,” she says. “There’s a soft bed with our names on it.” 

The bed _does_ sound inviting. And more comfortable; he can feel the bench starting to dig in. He gets up, and she leaves him to rinse while she fetches towels. They take their time drying one another off, or rather he does, and she lets him hold her for as long as he wants. It’s soothing, and the storm still murmuring inside him abates another fraction. Then she leads him to the bed and tucks his head to her chest, and strokes his hair.

After a moment, she says, “Did you do that?” 

He peers up at her, and she nods at the window on the far wall. Outside a broad expanse of snow-laden clouds is rolling in overhead.

He grumbles, annoyed, and resettles his head. It might be his doing, as he’s been too pre-occupied with letting Jane comfort him. Truth be told it probably is. 

Jane shakes as she giggles. “I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

“Mmmmm,” is all he says. He lets out a long, deep sigh and breathes in the smell of her; so different than how Æsir smell, so specifically her. The last vestiges of the storm let go, and as they depart he finally feels like he’s found a measure of stability again. 

“So. Better?” she asks into his damp hair. He nods. “See? Told you getting you out of the armor would help.”

He mumbles, not sure he’s saying anything of merit, and she laughs quietly. The new weather outside tugs at him, teasing, trying to draw him back like a tide. But Jane is here now, and she’s as much in his blood as the forces of the universe are, grounding him against their push and pull.


End file.
